


Be Still

by Vanyela



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, I'm not at all sorry, I'm so sorry, M/M, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 04:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11246154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vanyela/pseuds/Vanyela
Summary: Matthew Murdock had been blind for twenty-three years and he was convinced that this vision - this flash of pure, unadulterated sight - was of an angel.With a huff that could have been mistaken for a laugh, tears slipped from the corners of his eyes.It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.





	Be Still

**Author's Note:**

> And so begins my first foray into the Daredevil fandom... Enjoy!

Matthew was raised to be a good, God-fearing Catholic boy. Before the accident, his father took him to church every Sunday and some Wednesdays if his fight schedule allowed it. Matt took his First Communion, was Confirmed before God and all his disciples with the names of Saints. 

 

(He could have kept his name - after all, Matthew was a Saint, but the Saint of Accountants didn’t quite fit.)

 

With his mother gone and his father a fighter by trade, but repentant down to the very core of his being, Matthew took on the name of Saint Michael the Archangel. Matthew wanted to be good and just and righteous. He wanted to maintain the balance. 

 

With his flaming sword and burning soul, Matthew wanted to make a difference.

 

After the accident, Jack and Matt went to church more often. Sometimes three or four times a week. Matthew began confessing his sins. For each one he released within the confines of the confessional, he felt simultaneously lighter and heavier. Lighter for now his penance could begin - he could right the wrongs of his soul. Heavier for there were always more sins - always more wrongs. He couldn’t possibly expect to be absolved of them all. 

 

One of Battlin’ Jack Murdock’s last gifts to his son was a Bible in braille. Matt was convinced it wasn’t cheap - and he would be right - but Jack just reminded him that God gave just what they needed and never too much. 

 

(Matthew still confessed to Father Francis that he felt guilty for questioning God’s judgement, and guiltier for taking perhaps more than he needed from his father. Like Jack, Father Francis reminded Matthew that while it was God’s will that blinded him, it was God’s will that he was provided for in all aspects. How was he to be a good Catholic without a Bible he could read?)

 

Battlin’ Jack threw a fight and ended up a dead man. Back in God’s arms. Matt ended up in an orphanage run by nuns, alone, and with little else but his cane and his Bible. 

 

Surprisingly, Stick never mocked his beliefs. Never told him God wasn’t going to help him - just reminded him that no matter what, the control of his body was his and his alone. Only Matthew could hone his skills and abilities. Only Matthew could learn to fight in an otherwise black and red world. 

 

Not God - Matthew. 

 

Matthew went to law school. Paid for it with the blood money his father left the day they found his rapidly cooling, still bleeding corpse.

 

The first time he heard Foggy Nelson’s voice, Matt would swear he wasn’t worthy. It was perfect. Sweet but deep, mellow but dynamic, not a hint of grating insincerity. Best of all? Foggy wanted to be friends with Matt. For all the dirt and grime and sin caked onto his soul - for all the blood and pain - Foggy with the perfect voice wanted to be Matt’s friend.

 

Matt obviously had never seen Foggy. But what he’d heard - what he  _ felt  _ convinced him that Foggy was perfect.

 

\----

 

The sky above Hell’s Kitchen was dark, even for Matt. Fat droplets of rain splashed onto his cheeks, his mask, his horns. They ran down the planes of his suit, spilling over the edges and onto the ground beside, below, beneath him. 

 

They splashed into every slice and scrape - every open, bleeding wound. They mixed with the Blood of Christ as it left him in rivulets and streams, spreading the deep, irony red all around him in a halo of violence and gore. 

 

Lightning flashed and for a moment, his vision was all red. For one brief moment, the sky above him was  _ alive _ . 

 

Matthew, however, was quickly fading to the other side of that spectrum. He was alone. He was severely wounded. He was stuck on some God forsaken rooftop in a leather suit that wasn’t enough this time. 

 

With the tastes of blood and penance swirling in the back of his throat, he began to mumble his way through the last rites.

 

First came Penance.

 

“In the name… Of the Father, and of the Son… and of the Holy Spirit…”

 

He broke off for a moment, choking on the bitter tang of bile and blood at the back of his throat.

 

“M-my last confession… was… was… three days ago…”

 

In near silence, with only the rain and sky to keep him company, he began to recite his sins. Every lustful thought, every violent urge, every covetous, idolizing whisper.

 

“I am sorry for all these and… the sins… of my past life….”

 

Without sacramental oil to complete the Anointing of the Sick, and without the Body and Blood of Christ for the Eucharist, Matthew made do with reciting the Psalm of David. It was the best he could do. 

 

His cobbled-together last rites were a poor imitation of what they should have been. He knew this. He knew this would grant him no absolution in the eyes of the Lord.

 

He knew that as a man with the Devil himself burned into the essence of his being, he would be rejected by the Heavenly Host. He would fall through the pomp and circumstance and exaggerated torment that purgatory was said to provide.

 

Matthew Murdock was headed straight to Hell and he knew there was little he could do to change that.

 

But still, he began speaking with his mouth barely moving. 

 

“The Lord is my shepherd… I… Shall not want…”

 

He thought he could feel fluid in his lungs. A weak cough was all the effort that could be mustered though it did little to alleviate the feeling of drowning.

 

“He makes… Me lie down… In green pastures. H... He leads me beside… quiet waters…He restores my soul…” 

 

Somewhere beyond the ringing in his ears and the steady wavering of his consciousness, Matt registered a door banging open. Someone on the rooftop. Someone there to finish him off? To unmask and reveal him?

 

Someone just smoking a cigarette on a cool New York night?

 

“H-he guides me in the path of… of righteousness… For… His… Name’s sake…”

 

Footsteps thundered over to him.

 

“Even though… I walk… Through the valley… Of the shadow… Of death…”

 

Someone shouting his name. Muffled - like he was listening through plexiglass.

 

Shaking heads pressed into him - into his wounds. Matt let out a weak groan. The blood from the back of his throat burbled up to his lips. It spilled over, over, over.

 

Then down. 

 

It coated his cheeks and chin. A quick splash of what he could only assume was crimson. 

 

(Unless of course his blood really was as black as he’d always believed…)

 

“I fear… no evil… for You… are with me…”

 

A gentle hand cupped the back of his head. His cowl slid from his forehead, peeled back to rest behind his neck. Brown hair stuck in all different directions, held in place by the sweat that pure adrenaline and fear created.

 

The rain stopped. 

 

Matt opened his eyes.

 

There was hair so blond it was blinding… Eyes so green he was sure life itself was borne of those eyes. 

 

Matthew Murdock had been blind for twenty-three years and he was convinced that this vision - this flash of pure, unadulterated sight - was of an angel.

 

With a huff that could have been mistaken for a laugh, tears slipped from the corners of his eyes. 

 

It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

 

He felt his torso carefully pried from the ground. Hands pawed at his back. Pulled him to a chest and kept him there, cradled. Matt couldn’t stop staring.

 

He wasn’t sure how long this would last - this bittersweet glimpse of perfection. He wanted it to last. Wanted to keep his eyes on the angel at all times.

 

The angel was crying. Mouthing something.

 

He couldn’t hear.

 

With a smile on his face, finally feeling at peace, Matt drifted off. His eyes slid shut. 

 

From there, he floated. 

 


End file.
